Everybody Has Their Breaking Point
by Love At 221b
Summary: Sherlock Holmes takes pride in being different (and a little bit of a pain in the ass), but even high functioning sociopaths have feelings. Possible Johnlock or Sherairty! Warning, self harm in later chapters. Cover photo taken from 'Quinlar' on deviantart.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everybody, if anyone is actually reading this xD! I found an outlet in writing and thought people might want to find and outlet in reading my ramblings. This is my first story and at the moment is a one shot. If people like and if I get, say...5 reviews? (Any type of review! Likes, hate or recommendations on where to get next.) I might have the confidence to write on, I'm more than up for it. Anyway, the way this story is going in my head it will end up referencing self harm and depression. Maybe some Johnlock or Sheriarty to lighten the mood. Anyway with all that out of the way enjoy! Oh yeah - I in no way own Sherlock Holmes *sobs***

Sherlock Holmes used to happily refer to himself as a 'high functioning sociopath'. In fact you could almost say he took pleasure in it. The constant remarks about how confusing it must be in John Watson's 'funny little mind' further shows us he would in fact have despised to be 'normal'.

Used to...

As much as he liked to think he was different, inhuman, it came to a point where our beloved Sherlock reached his breaking point. Just as any human would under the pressure he was living with.

The cases became like child's play, tedious and unoriginal. Muggings, family feuds and faked suicides. But still John dragged him out into the streets of London and all the way to Scotland Yard, afraid that he might once again start shooting walls, raising their rent and also poor Miss Hudson's heart rate.

When working on the cases Sherlock was forced to be in the presence of a Miss Sally Donovan and her play thing Anderson. And although, with Sherlock's many witty and hilarious comebacks, the repetitive and droning 'freak' started to bite away at him.

Things finally snapped for the consulting detective when John went out on his latest (which was ultimately a failure) date. Sherlock, finished with his most recent experiment which documented how much liquid could be held by a dead body, decided to take his regular stroll around his mind palace. Although physical house cleaning was not his forte, mental palace cleaning was of the upmost importance.

Immersing himself within his memories he relaxed ; the sinking feeling comfortable and familiar to him. But the relaxation he had possessed was now replaced by overwhelming panic...

**Oooo! Please R&R. Think of the children!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 everybody, Please enjoy :)**

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_A thick layer of smog filled the halls of Sherlock's mind. His vast white rooms had been transformed into a blur of darkness and confusion. Sherlock closed his eyes and spun in a tight circle, also spinning in reality, trying to get his bearings. He waved his hands around trying to clear the offending substance._

_"It's no use!" He screamed within his mind, realising his actions were futile._

_As if hearing Sherlock's outcry the smog slowly slithered away, almost being swallowed up by the surrounding walls. He sighed a deep breath of relief, he came into his palace to get away from the tension of the real word, he didn't need his mental world stressful as well. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and started to plan the route he would take, trying to figure out what he wanted to achieve in his mental exploration. After a few hand gestures and head twitches he made a sharp turn to his left and followed the right wall down to a small room; this was the room kept for the memories that he didn't require very often._

_His fingertips traced the mahogany banister as he took the long staircase 2 steps at a time, time was of the essence as John would be back from his date very shortly and Sherlock couldn't focus with his incessant babbling. As he reached the top he took the last 4 steps in one long bound, landing neatly onto the thick carpet. In his next few strides he: pulled off his suit jacket hanging it on the banister; flicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks; he then continued walking down the corridor with his toes slightly bent, digging his toes into the expensive flooring._

_Reaching the door Sherlock grasped the handle giving a quick push down; for a door that hadn't been opened in around 12_ _¾_ _of a year it slid smoothly open and rested gently against the wall. Sherlock scrunched up his eyes, breathing in the smell of leather book bindings and his mother's perfume. Familiar, happy smells. He took several deep breaths, allowing the smell to ingrain itself in his short term memory. His eyes gently parted, allowing him to view the room he had somewhat sub-consciously decided to enter._

_The room -even after all this time- was still scarily familiar to the detective. The floor was layered in an old antique carpet that once covered his families' old library; all the walls were covered with mismatched bookcases full of books, boxes and scraps of paper; on the ceiling hung a wrought iron chandelier and in the middle of the room sat Sherlock's signature black chair._

_Running his hands along the shelves of the many bookshelves, Sherlock tried to find anything especially interesting. There were vast amounts of soiled notes from many of his childhood 'experiments', all that had been already repeated at least once. Sherlock envisioned a bin within the centre of the room and flicked the papers within it, it had been a while since this room had been maintained. He pulled old textbooks from some of the graffitied shelves, smiling at some of the ramblings scrawled quickly onto the corners of pages. As much as school bored him he always found a way to keep himself amused ; even if some of his activities were not fully legal._

_Laughing at the memories he continued his search through the vast bookcases, but his laughter came to a halt as he sensed the feel of cool oak. He held the object gently within his fingers, the grasp almost feather like, and then took a seat in the centre of the room. This he remembered, in fact Sherlock knew exactly where this object was hidden within his and John's flat, this object was his only friend for a very long period of time. He clutched the elaborate clasp on the front, shakily undid it and leant the lid against its hinges. One look was too much, gripping his hair and forcing his eyes shut Sherlock tensed ; his body trembling as the memories flooded back._

_His eyes slid open and he __grabbed __one of the items he had stored: his old notebook. On the front, embossed in metal, was one word..._

**"Sherlock?!" **

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**And chapter 2 is complete! Please please please tell me what you think :) It would mean a lot to me. I don't know when/if the next chapter will be up. But if you would like one (sooner) please review and that should speed things up :3 Bye for now LA221b**


	3. Chapter 3

**Happy Reading :3**

_**His eyes slid open and he grabbed one of the items he had stored: his old notebook. On the front, embossed in metal, was one word...**_

**"Sherlock?!" **

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**"Sherlock?!"**

Sherlock was abruptly pulled out of his memories by a shout. He jumped up out of his chair and as a protective reflex brought his arm up and swung his fist right into the offender's nose. "What the FUCK Sherlock?!" John barked from his new position on the floor, trying to stop the blood pouring from his nostrils.

"John?"

John pulled himself up from the floor whilst glaring at his roommate. "Yes it's John you complete idiot! What the hell were you doing? You HIT me!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning his back walking towards the kitchen. He pulled a mug from the sink and flicked on the kettle. "Yes Dr Watson I am very aware of that fact, I am a detective after all." Sherlock teased bitterly. "I am making a cup of tea would you like one?"

"Hmm? Oh, tea...yes please." John stuttered out of surprise, Sherlock never made him tea. He decided against bringing it up as if he did the consulting detective would never do it again. He threw his coat onto the desk in the living room before sinking into his arm-chair. He touched his nose, sighing of relief when feeling the dried blood. The wound had only been superficial. He checked for any more damage and came to the conclusion that it was only bruising.

Sitting down, Sherlock passed John his tea whilst taking a sip from his own. The silence went on for a while, John hesitant to start conversation. Sherlock was evaluating his hypothesis on how human skin reacts with different acids when he was interrupted by John.

"So what were you doing when I returned home Sherlock?"

Sherlock sipped his tea, contemplating whether to answer. "I was in my mind palace."

John fiddled with his fingers before returning with "Is everything okay? It's just, I had to call your name a few times before you gave me a knock round the head."

"Yes John I am perfectly fine." Sherlock announced tilting his head.

"Are you sure you are okay? You...you were _shaking _Sherlock."

"Yes John I am fine! The real question is are YOU fine?"

"Pardon...?"

"Bad date hey? You were picked up 2 hours ago by your date, the car horn was that of a fiat 500, 2009 model. You returned home in a black cab. You could have just been being a gentleman and offered to make your own way home, but you slammed the taxi door a little too hard."

"Sherlock stop..."

"Fumbling with the keys at the door, swearing under your breath ; both of these are signs of annoyance."

"Stop..."

"Miss Hudson asked you how your date was, you pretended not to hear her which means you are incredibly upset and/or angry..."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP SHERLOCK!" John stood up and walked to the stairs leading to his room. "You really are a machine. I'm sick of being treated like this. When you become less of freak come and talk to me."

_**[BenedictCumberbatch'sCheekbonesAreWorthyOfBeingAChapterBreak]**_

Sherlock sat still for around 40 minutes after John left. When he finally concluded that he wasn't returning downstairs he stood up and took calculating steps towards his bedroom. Kicking the door open and shut he then collapsed onto his bed. His mind was busy analysing his and John's argument. He hadn't meant to be mean to John, he was just put on the defence when asked about why he was shaking.

He rotated and stuffed his head deep within the downy pillow. John couldn't know about his decline and flashbacks, he was freakish enough without his flatmate knowing about his past. Sherlock fought the suffocation of his pillow for as long as possible before grasping it and throwing it against his back wall. The urge to scream built up inside him but that would cause unwanted attention.

When he was younger he always had Mycroft to run to and talk to. He never hated his brother but when Mycroft left for boarding school Sherlock felt betrayed, he was being left alone with his parents. His parents were very loving and he loved them to pieces, but they never understood him like his brother did. The present rivalry between the siblings was unwanted but Sherlock had never been any good at building bridges.

The urges had been getting stronger lately. He had been clean (on and off) for around 5 years but that was starting to become meaningless. Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined his bedroom within his head. His real bedroom was very minimalistic but the one within his palace was almost a tip. He scouted around in the inside his head before his eyes snapped open. He had found what he had been looking for.

He jumped off from his bed and walked over to his bathroom. Crouching down under the sink he removed one of the tiles from the wall. Sherlock's hand skirted round in the hollow wall but stopped as his hands came into contact with his familiar wooden box. Replacing the tile, hugging the box to his chest he then returned to his bedroom and plonked himself down onto his bed.

He lowered his shoulders dropping his jacket off behind him onto the duvet. Moving onto his sleeves he fumbled whilst trying to undo the buttons the moved onto the front. Managing to undo half of them Sherlock gave up and slid the garment over his head.

Taking one deep breath he undid the clasp and flicked back the lid...

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**910 words guys :) Thanks for all the view you guys have been giving this story, it's really nice to see. But...even if a few of you could give up 2 mins of your day to review it would give me 24 HOURS of happiness :D (And speed up chapter updates). Thats all for now, see you soon LA221B **


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**He lowered his shoulders dropping his jacket off behind him onto the duvet. Moving onto his sleeves he fumbled whilst trying to undo the buttons the moved onto the front. Managing to undo half of them Sherlock gave up and slid the garment off his head.**

**Taking one deep breath he undid the clasp flicked back the lid...**

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The lid fell back onto its hinges with a quick click ; it bounced back up, fell and then finally settled. He caressed the edges of the box lovingly whilst peering at the contents. He picked up pieces of paper, scribbled on and ripped at the corners. Scrunching the stack into small paper balls he threw them all into the bin at his feet. He sifted through the many lighters, syringes and even some small bags of cocaine before he got to what he was looking for.

Layering the bottom of the box were 12 (he had counted) double edged razor blades still wrapped up in there packaging. He slid his scalpel to one side and lifted one of the wrapped blades carefully from the box. He put the blade gently on his knee, closed the lid, fastened the clasp and put his box on the end of the bed.

Sherlock swung his legs onto the bed and threw his jacket and shirt onto the floor ; for once he wasn't bothered about the creases that would form. He meticulously unwrapped the blade from the slightly waxed paper and put it on the duvet next to him, making sure he could reach it easily. He then looked down at his arms. His right was the least effected- as he was right handed- there were many silver scars littering his whole arm but only a few deep purple ones that wouldn't fade as easily. His left was another story however.

Sherlock couldn't say why he started exactly but he had many a reason to: he was around 12 years old and his parents had been going away with business a lot and Mycroft was left to look after him. The older Holmes brother did his very best but with the stress of Mycroft's exams he failed to notice the bulling Sherlock was experiencing. His little brother went through constant mental, physical and emotional abuse, so much so that he eventually turned to self harm. It made him feel somewhat in control and released his emotions without having to tell anyone about them.

Mycroft found out about Sherlock's growing addiction the weekend before his parents were due to return. Sherlock was stressed that his parents would find out and be mad so he ran to his brother and told him everything. Mycroft at first was shocked ; after he was angry at himself for not noticing sooner. Brother, older and younger, then worked together to try and help Sherlock recover. They managed to get him clean and Sherlock even told his parents who got very emotional but were immensely proud of the support their two sons had shown towards each other.

_But Mycroft wasn't always around anymore... _

Sherlock stared at the mess that was his left arm : his canvas. On this arm there were less silvery scars and more deep, raised purple ones. Some of these more serious ones were still there from his childhood, but most were from the last 10 years. There was even one from when John slept over at his potential girlfriend's house and Sherlock had got in a low mood. He had cut far too deep and had to stitch the wound up himself. A thick purple line had been left, surrounded by speckled dots where the sutures had been.

He sighed at the mess, and laughed at the fact he was about to make it worse. He picked up the blade and gently ran his thumb along the edge : nice and sharp. Good. Sherlock searched for a clean space on his arm, finally deciding on the faded, scarred section of skin in the crook of his arm. He lifted his right hand up to the space he had located and hesitantly ran the blade across to see how easy it was to draw blood.

_Very easy with a new blade like this..._

Now fuelled by the small trickle of blood leaving the cut he moved the blade up by 3.7mm, put the corner of the blade to his skin and pushed down. Hard. With the high pressure he dragged the corner of the blade across his arm, hearing and feeling the tear of skin beneath his fingers. Sherlock threw the blade to the bed - with blood spurting from the cut - closed his eyes and sighed from the high that he was experiencing.

He had gone deep and he knew it. He knew it wasn't 'hospital serious' but he needed to attend to it soon, even if it meant stopping his high. He opened his eyes and was surprised at the sight, he had been expecting more blood. Yes his arm and trousers were caked in blood but it could be worse right? Sherlock leant over the bed and grabbed his box, pulling out antiseptic, bandages and wipes. He also grabbed a rag from the box and pressed it to the wound, stemming the bleeding. He lay back and closed his eyes once more. All he could do was wait.

With 5 minutes gone Sherlock gently decreased the pressure on the wound. He peered under and saw it was still bleeding but was light enough to bandage. He removed the rag and grabbed some wipes and antiseptic. Pulling a wipe out of its packet with his teeth he then slowly cleaned the blood off from his arm, being careful not to make the bleeding heavier. Satisfied with the result he then grabbed some cotton cloth with his right hand and flicked the cap of the antiseptic off with his teeth. Pouring the antiseptic onto the cotton he then dapped the inside of his wound, gasping at the pain being emitted from his arm.

_Ironic really. Complaining about the pain after what he had just done._

With the wound now clean he picked up the bandage, tightening the slack whilst wrapping it round his arm and expertly fastening it without tape or a pin. Happy with the result he stood up and pulled his bloodied trousers off, picking up his shirt up at the same time. Knowing John would be asleep he walked out of his room and into the kitchen, opening the washing machine and throwing his soiled clothes within it. He wasn't worried, the blood could have easily been from his experiments, John would never suspect a thing. Smiling at the thought Sherlock washed his hands in the sink and strolled back to his room for a restless night's sleep.

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**I AM SO SORRY GUYS! I have been revising for mock exams! Please don't kill me! But to make up for the loss here is 1077 words :D !**

**I also need you guys to review and tell me if you want 'Johnlock or no Johnlock'? Or 'Sheriarty or no Sheriarty'? Please review! It is up to you guys where the story goes from here :)**

**Thanks for reading!**

**LA221B :3**


	5. Chapter 5

**He wasn't worried, the blood could have easily been from his experiments, John would never suspect a thing. Smiling at the thought Sherlock washed his hands in the sink and strolled back to his room for a restless night's sleep.**

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John squinted at the sunlight breaching the crack in his curtains, groaning he rubbed at his eyes trying to adjust to the light. Sitting up against his headboard he extended his arms to the side, stretching and rolling his shoulders after sleeping in an uncomfortable position. _He really should get a new pillow_ . Slowly the memories of last night returned to him, he had unintentionally got into an argument with Sherlock so should probably go and apologise before the detective got into one of his famous moods. Throwing off the warm covers he walked to his shower to make himself more alert, knowing he would need the energy to deal with his roommate.

When John emerged from his room, fully clean and dressed, he found Sherlock sitting on his chair reading the paper. "Morning Sherlock" He uttered as he made his way to the kitchen. Sherlock lowered the paper and simply raised an eyebrow at the doctor. "Good morning John. How was your sleep? What are your plans today?" John bitterly imitated Sherlock's sophisticated drawl. The sociopath scoffed behind his paper. Controlling his anger John finished making his coffee, grabbed his laptop and sat down in his customary armchair. He placed his drink on the table and logged into his laptop.

John was scrolling through the feedback on his blog - his coffee finished at least an hour ago- when Sherlock finally folded his paper and carelessly threw it on the floor. Brought out of his reading by the disturbance John closed his laptop and glanced over at Sherlock.

"Sherlock I'm sor-"

"Memory foam."

"Pardon?" John now thoroughly confused.

"Your pillow issues. Memory foam. The down you currently have is too soft for the position you sleep in." Sherlock advised.

John had given up long ago trying to understand Sherlock's ability. "Memory foam? Thanks, I will go out later."

Sherlock had interrupted John purposely when he had tried to apologise, the doctor decided to give it a few minutes before trying again. He looked at his curly haired friend who was now staring out into space thinking about god knows what. John didn't know how he did it ; how could he look at someone and know there entire life story? All John could deduce was that Sherlock was annoyed at him, and god, a five year old could probably come to that conclusion.

"Sherlock I'm sorry." John blurted out, trying to avoid another interruption.

Sherlock glared at John, "Whatever for?"

"Well I shouted at you, I was stressed because I had had a bad date..."

"I distinctively remember you shouted at me for telling you that you 'had had a bad date'."

"Well yeah." John agreed before sighing.

"Just forget about it John, it is fine." Sherlock said sincerely, standing up as he did. "And anyway, we can't be at each other's throats right now, there is a case!" Sherlock chuckled.

"A case? An exciting one?"

Sherlock snorted, "Not by far, a murder, but I'm bored and it will do."

Sherlock was the only human who thought a murder was boring, John shook his head and asked "How did they die?"

"The victim's vocal cords have been ripped out." Sherlock announced whilst grabbing his coat. "Someone was definitely at THEIR throat!" Sherlock disappeared from sight and John heard the door slam.

John rolled his eyes and chuckled slightly at Sherlock's attempt at humour and sprinted down the stairs after him. Even if he wouldn't admit it, the idea of a murder had filled him with adrenaline and he was ready to get on the case.

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**I'm sorry this is only short guys! I am feeling pretty sleepy and am revising for exams :( I have currently had 1 vote for Johnlock and 2 for Sheriarty. Relationships are quite a way off yet so I will leave the vote open for a few more chapters. Please tell me what you want or I will more than likely go for my ship : Sheriarty :3**

**Seeya for now!**

**LA221B**


	6. Chapter 6

**Even if he wouldn't admit it, the idea of a murder had filled him with adrenaline and he was ready to get on the case.**

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When the taxi came to a stop, John peered out at their location. "Sherlock? Is this entirely safe? This area is full of drug lords and crimin-" John stopped when he heard the door slam and watched Sherlock make long strides towards the crime scene, which was cut off by yellow tape. Annoyed that he had to once again pay for the expensive mode of transport, John got out of the Taxi and threw the driver two £10 notes. "Keep the change" he mumbled before stalking off after Sherlock.

"Lestrade, the freak is here." A voice said into a walkie-talkie.

Sherlock flinched slightly at the nickname but bit back with a standard Holmes comment, "Nice to see you too Donovan, I see you have been put on guard dog duty again? Must be degrading when your boyfriend is in there doing the grown up work." He smiled and pulled his collar up before pushing past Sally Donovan and slipping under the police tape. John watched him swoop through the door, going into work mode. Following suit he ducked under the tape but not before giving Donovan a sarcastic smile. No one was mean to Sherlock on his watch.

Lestrade ran up to the doctor as he entered the run down council house, "Ah John! Come upstairs quick! Sherlock needs help and Anderson isn't exactly his favourite person..."

"That's one way to put it, I'll go up now"

"Thanks John"

Without haste John took the stairs two at a time wanting to get to the detective quickly. Sherlock was crouched over what John assumed was the body, walking over he went and stood in the corner of the room whilst being careful not to touch anything.

"You need my help Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood up and turned round to face John."Yes actually", he said whilst brushing himself off.

Surprised the doctor stuttered out "Yeah? What with?"

"What is wrong with this scene?"

Sherlock stared intensely at John, so intensely John got uncomfortable and looked round the room to distract himself. _Right, he could do this, he could prove himself. _Taking a deep breath John tried to analyse like his roommate could. _Antique room : deep wood walls and floors ; a mahogany desk in the corner and altogether furnished quite nicely for a council house. _

"The person who lived here couldn't have possibly afforded all of this...right?"

Sherlock nodded sharply, "What else? Come on!"

_Dead body : Designer tracksuit, short hair, trainers, florescent socks, throat...throat ripped out, clean. Clean. Spotless in fact._

"No blood."

Laughing out his agreement Sherlock shouted "NO BLOOD! No blood anywhere! Clothes, floor, body, there isn't any blood!"

Now getting worried John said "So what does that mean?"

Not answering Sherlock walked over to the desk under the window and plucked a piece of paper off the top. He sauntered back over to John and stuffed the paper under his nose.

The doctor stepped back and let his eyes focus. He gasped.

"So he IS back..."

The sociopath almost cackled with excitement, forgetting who they were talking about.

"And boy did I miss him."

[ I.O.U ...]

[(A Case)]

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**Sorry this is short guys :S It's my birthday tomorrow and I have been having a pre party. But 3 cheers for Morairty! And yes, the vote was for Sheriarty! But I might slip in some one sided Johnlock on John's part :) **

**LA221B :3**


	7. Chapter 7

**I AM SO SORRY! I don't know what happened...I guess I just wasn't in the mood, my writing was no good. But here it is, and I shall try and update more.**

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**Not answering Sherlock walked over to the desk under the window and plucked a piece of paper off the top. He sauntered back over to John and stuffed the paper under his nose.**

**The doctor stepped back and let his eyes focus. He gasped.**

**"So he IS back..."**

**The sociopath almost cackled with excitement, forgetting who they were talking about.**

**"And boy did I miss him."**

**[ I.O.U ...]**

**[(A Case)]**

Jim Moriarty sat in his leather arm chair, a monitor sat on the coffee table and a cup and saucer on his lap which he took sips from at frequent intervals. The room was bright and airy, everything furnished in black and white, the odd hint of red breaking the bland colours up. On the monitor he observed Sherlock skip madly around a rundown council estate, a tired John Watson following in his wake. Happy everything was going to plan Jim finished off his tea, cracked his neck and turned the monitor off.

"Sebastian!"

A giant of a man walked through the door. In height he wasn't much, just under Sherlock's 6ft but unlike Sherlock : Sebastian Moran worked out. Something that Jim Moriarty took great pleasure in but made the fact the blonde beauty was straight all the harder, in more ways than one, to bear.

"Yes boss?" Sebastian growled, standing to attention.

Jim held up his hand daintily, "Help me up, I have scheming to do."

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Ending his call Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Moriarty, back? He was going to have to keep a close eye on his little brother. Mycroft was very aware that Sherlock was happy-that much was obvious from the glee in his voice he tried to hide-but with all the un-avoidable stress, Sherlock would eventually take a turn for the worse. John didn't know, so it would fall to him to be the annoying sibling and care for Sherlock.

Mycroft leant back in his chair, took a deep breath and tried to ignore the presence of his rumbling stomach.

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"Sherlock wait up! You can't just run off like that!" John panted, running behind Sherlock after he had sprinted from the crime scene. "The police are going to want to know what is going on."

Sherlock almost skipped up to John, waving Moriarty's note under his nose. "This is no time for waiting around John! Our dear Moriarty is back! There are cases to solve!" He then ran off to hail a taxi to get back to 211b.

"Did you take that from the crime scene!? Sherlock that's evidence, fingerprints?"

"Jim is way too cle-"

"Jim is it now?" John spat as he glared at the curly haired detective.

Taking a calculated pause Sherlock replied "What…is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you seem happy Sherlock! HAPPY! This is a terrible thing, the cleverest mass murderer we know has returned. And well, it seems like you have been waiting for this!" John was slowly turning red from the strain he was putting his voice under.

Sherlock's face stiffened, his teeth snapped shut. "You don't know anything."

He opened the door of the taxi that had just arrived, jumped inside and slammed the door. The black cab drove away. John was left speechless on the pavement.

"Well fuck."

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Sherlock sat in the taxi and pulled out his phone, indicating to the driver he was not interested in petty small talk. He hammered in Mycroft's number who answered on the first ring.

"Brother mine, what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Cut the crap Mycroft. Moriarty is back."

The other end was quiet.

"Mycroft?!"

"Ah yes! Moriarty? Hmm interesting. I was not aware, but now I am I will get right on it. Thank you Sherlock."

Mycroft hung up and Sherlock placed his phone back into his pocket, ignoring the texts on his lock screen from a certain abandoned army doctor. Closing his eyes and leaning back Sherlock blanked out the world, preparing himself for what lay ahead.

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**Sorry again,**

**LA221B**


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